


Turpentine and patches

by thisprettywren



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, M/M, Plot What Plot, Riding Crop, Sensation Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-26
Updated: 2011-08-26
Packaged: 2017-10-23 01:57:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisprettywren/pseuds/thisprettywren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finds himself on the business end of an experiment. And a riding crop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turpentine and patches

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/10852.html?thread=54522212#t54522212) over at sherlockbbc_fic.
> 
> Written for the sensation play square in my kink_bingo card.
> 
> Title from "Braille" by Regina Spektor.

John closes his eyes and leans the back of his head against the wall, trying to think about anything other than the fact that he's naked and sitting in the middle of their flat (with the windows wide open, he realises belatedly; _bloody hell, Sherlock_ ), forearms tied securely to the arms of one of the sturdy kitchen chairs, and very much alone.

He'd just been finishing the morning paper when Sherlock had looked up at him with that extravagantly innocent expression that meant he was up to something he thought particularly clever: "John, I need your assistance. With an... experiment."

Ah. There it was, then. _Experiment_ , said in that tone of voice, meant _sex_. Specifically, sex of the sort that should make him nervous, if he had any sense, but hearing it sent a live current down his spine directly to his cock.

John flexes his wrists and tries not to squirm at the thought.

He's concentrating so intently on keeping still, in fact, that he almost doesn't hear Sherlock return to the living room. He looks as impeccably composed as ever, dressed in suit trousers and a dark grey shirt. He might be on his way to the Yard if not for the fact that he's barefoot.

Well, that and the coil of rope in his hand. John's attention shifts from keeping himself still toward simply remembering how to breathe.

Sherlock tips his head slightly to the side and regards John impassively. "Safeword?"

John swallows. "What?"

"Not a question, John." Sherlock's voice has gone dark with promise; he takes another step forward so that John has to crane his head back to see his face. "Safeword."

 _Oh, Christ._ Sherlock knows John's safeword already, of course; knows just as well that John hasn't forgotten it. The fact that John knows this is a game Sherlock's playing--designed to build anticipation--doesn't mean it isn't _working_.

John swallows around a suddenly-dry tongue and manages to speak the one word guaranteed to pull Sherlock out of the moment. "Mycroft," John says, his own voice sounding hoarse, and Sherlock's cheek twitches in acknowledgement.

Sherlock drops to his knees in front of John, meets his eyes only briefly, and doesn’t speak as he hauls John's right leg up and over his trapped right wrist, running a rope under the arm of the chair and looping it around his calf and thigh to tie his leg there. Once he's satisfied that it's secure he does the same to John's left leg. The position cups John's hips forward in the seat with his arsehole on display and, above it, his cock standing uselessly against his abdomen.

Sherlock doesn't speak, doesn't even meet John's eye, just turns and stalks from the room.

John is left alone again, feeling splayed open and dreadfully, impossibly exposed, with nothing to do but wait.

* * *

Sherlock comes back at the precise moment John’s anticipation begins to tip over into discomfort, just as he’s starting to feel a bit stiff, and cold, and wishing he had some clothes. He’d probably assume he’d indicated as much—that Sherlock had been able to read something in his breath or the way he’s holding himself—if he hadn’t been so distracted by the slow, deliberate pace with which Sherlock is crossing the sitting room.

Well, that and the fact that he’s holding the riding crop.

Sherlock’s eyes are sharp as flint in a face that’s all angular, predatory stillness. John’s cock jerks slightly in anticipation even as a ribbon of cold nerves coils at the base of his spine.

John shifts slightly; there’s suddenly altogether too much air pressing against his skin and Sherlock’s just standing now, watching him, tapping his thumb against the handle of the riding crop so that the leather tip twitches slightly. John can’t take his eyes from it, torn between conflicting impulses to touch himself and, well, hide. He’s honestly not sure which he’d choose; supposes it doesn’t matter since, tied as he is, he can’t do either.

“Sherlock—“ he begins.

Sherlock cuts him off with a hissed breath. “Unless you need to tell me something, I rather think it best that you don’t speak until the experiment is completed.” John brings his gaze up to Sherlock’s eyes as Sherlock takes two long steps closer. “I will be observing your response to two distinct types of stimuli.” Sherlock takes two more steps toward John until he can bring one bare foot up to rest on the front of the seat between John’s thighs, and John’s breath catches in his chest. “And I will be able to gather more accurate data—“ He brings the riding crop down on the back of the chair beside John’s head with a soft _swish_ , pitches his voice lower—“if your mouth is not occupied with _words_.”

John doesn’t take his eyes off Sherlock’s, even when Sherlock begins to slide the end of the riding crop slowly forward along John’s neck and up along the underside of his jaw. Light pressure on his chin and John tips it upward, sucking in a breath; the crop wanders up over his cheek, across his cheekbone, down along the side of his nose, and finally comes to rest lightly against John’s lips.

“Do you understand?” Sherlock’s voice has dropped to something less like a human voice and more like a growl, dark and dangerous, deceptively soft.

“Yes,” John says with a nod, and then the air is forced from his lungs with a gasp as Sherlock twitches the crop, lightning-quick, to administer a sharp slap against the inside of John’s thigh.

John scarcely has time to register the sting before the top of the crop is pressing against his lower lip again. “Do you,” Sherlock says slowly, deliberately, leaning in, and there’s no upward inflection on the words, “understand.”

This time John _does_ understand and he nods, breathless, touching the tip of his tongue against his lip. Sherlock takes the opportunity to press the end of the crop between his lips, over his teeth, to rest against his tongue. John sucks lightly, obediently, and lets his eyes fall closed. His arousal is an insistent ache, and the thought of what he must look like sends a heady flush of shame up his throat, a rush of hot blood that leaves him slightly dizzy. There’s heat spreading across the skin of his upper thigh, too, from the sting of the crop, and with it comes the understanding of just how powerless he is in this position, that Sherlock could light up all the nerves of his skin, make him buzz and burn _all over_ , and he doesn’t even know what it is he wants, exactly, but it’s still all he can do not to beg.

He parts his lips to suck in a quick breath and forces his eyes open; Sherlock’s eyes are still on his face, focused so intently John is half-sure they’re actually seeing right through to read the thoughts off the back of his skull.

Sherlock brings one hand up to cup the back of John’s head, curling his fingers to dig the nails slightly into the skin of John’s scalp. He has his sleeves rolled up to the elbow and John can feel the heat of Sherlock’s arm against his cheek, the slight slide of skin almost unbearably intimate.

Sherlock bends to whisper directly into John’s ear, and John shivers a bit as the words ghost across his skin with the heat of Sherlock’s breath. “Just look at you. And we’ve barely even started yet.”

John thinks he mostly manages to swallow the groan that tries to force its way up his throat as Sherlock pulls the tip of the crop free of his mouth and begins to trace his jaw again, sliding it lower, down the side of his neck. He has to extend his shoulder and bring his elbow behind him and John can’t help but imagine the long, pale line of Sherlock’s arm, the subtle shifting of lean muscle hidden beneath the fabric of his shirt.

John has never felt more naked.

Apart from his arm Sherlock doesn’t move as he lets the crop drift downward, trailing it across one nipple and down along John’s ribcage. He keeps the pressure light and teasing as he twists his arm to draw the end of the crop across John’s stomach, along the crease of John’s hip and down the inside of his thigh. He brings his head just a little closer and sucks John’s earlobe between his lips, his mouth hot and wet and soft against the sensitive skin there, and John lets his eyes close again as he breaths out a low moan.

Sherlock brings his teeth together lightly—not really biting down, just pressure to exert control, using the connection to hold John’s head still—as he brings the crop down abruptly against the skin of John’s thigh, one-two-three-four-five quick slaps, and John is gasping and biting at his own lip as his nerves sing with the heady muddle of sharp pain and soft pleasure.

Then Sherlock draws back abruptly, and John snaps his eyes open at the sudden loss of contact. Sherlock has dropped to his heels in front of the chair; as soon as John’s eyes find his he brings the tip of the crop to rest lightly against the base of John’s erection, drawing it up the sensitive underside of his cock with agonising slowness. John erection is flushed dark and straining and he’s torn between wanting _more_ and genuine apprehension as the top of the crop comes nearer and nearer the head, and _god, no, he wouldn’t_ tumbles through his mind, all mixed up with _he can_ and a formless, wordless sense of amazement.

Sherlock stills for a moment, his face a perfectly-held blank, when the crop reaches the head of John’s cock; for a moment John’s sure there’s no air in the room, everything in his body squeezed tight with anticipation. When Sherlock begins to move the crop back down again John’s breath is abruptly too loud in his own ears, a ragged sort of gasping that seems to get sharper as the crop travels lower, the drag of pressure against his perineum, lower, lower—

“ _Oh, God_ ,” he hears himself whisper, and Sherlock withdraws the crop abruptly. John tenses for the sting but instead there’s just light pressure of the leather tip against his chin, pressing his mouth closed (he hadn’t realised it was open) and pushing his head gently back until he’s looking up at the ceiling. He can feel himself trying to extend his spine, arching his ribs and throat upward, and the effort of breathing through his nose is enough to distract him so that the press of Sherlock’s hand against the developing welts on the inside of his thigh come as a surprise.

It’s a quick slam of sensation, then, from the heat of Sherlock’s palm on his sensitive skin to the shudder that runs through him as Sherlock takes just the tip of his erection into his mouth, pressing with the smooth muscle of his tongue, and John has time to register _wet_ and _close_ and _heat_ before the touch on his thigh turns sharp, Sherlock digging his nails into the heated flesh.

It’s both too much and not enough and when Sherlock’s mouth and hand disappear John’s hips jerk. He’s forgotten he isn’t supposed to be speaking, but the way the riding crop is pressing his head back makes speech impossible in any case; all that comes out of his throat is a wrenched sort of groan.

“Oh, _quite_ interesting.” There’s a curl of smug amusement in Sherlock’s voice, but John scarcely has time to process it before his nerves and skin are under assault again; the crop still pressing his chin back while Sherlock’s tongue moves lower, tracing an unpredictable path along his most sensitive flesh while Sherlock’s free hand continues a seemingly-random series of scratches and pinches until he can’t distinguish one from the other. There’s a rising heat pooling at the base of his spine and he’s aware, distantly, that he’s writhing, tugging against the ropes, flexing his fingers and toes. He’s making a sound that would best be called a whine and Christ, he should be embarrassed but he doesn’t _care_ , there’s no room in his head for anything but wanting this, _yes, more_ —

It stops, abruptly, hand and tongue and crop falling away, and John bites back a growl of frustration, his head dropping forward against his chest as the sharp edge of his orgasm recedes. He can feel his pulse hammering in his veins, in his cock, _Christ_ , he’d been so _close_. It seems to take ages for his breath to steady enough to drag his eyes open; when he does it’s to see Sherlock crouched in front of him, both hands resting on the seat between his splayed legs. There’s a flush spreading from the open collar of Sherlock’s shirt all the way to the sharp lines of his cheekbones, his lips slightly parted and red from recent biting, and he’s staring at John in outright wonder.

There’s a long, stretched moment while they stare at each other, Sherlock’s pale eyes shadowed with something John’s sure he’d never admit to being anything so pedestrian as _lust_. They each break the silence at the same time, Sherlock growling a low _John_ at the same time John finally manages to form his mouth around a _please_.

There’s the sound of fumbling, a click as the bottle of lube is opened, and John’s next inhale shudders in his chest. Sherlock presses two stupidly long, slick fingers inside him to brush unerringly against that sensitive spot, his other hand coming around to guide John’s cock between his lips and in until John can feel the pressure against Sherlock’s soft palate. There’s nothing teasing about the way Sherlock’s touching him now, his eyes still locked on John’s beneath the dark spill of curls across his forehead. It doesn’t take long, like this, John already stretched wide and needing; his climax hits him hard and he spills himself into Sherlock’s mouth, wracked with full-body shudders that make the chair beneath him creak alarmingly.

Sherlock unwinds the ropes while John catches his breath, heart stuttering back to something like a normal pace, though he’s still breathless enough that his vision bursts with pinpricks of light when Sherlock helps him to standing. One way or another they end in Sherlock’s bed, tangled together, Sherlock still clothed with his arousal pressed against the back of John’s hip. Sherlock just laughs low in his throat and swats his hand away when John reaches for it.

John laughs too, then, and murmurs into the pillow, “Experiment a success, then?” His mind is still clouded and hazy, his limbs heavy against the sheets.

He can feel Sherlock’s smile against the back of his hair. “Results inconclusive,” Sherlock answers, his voice low and amused, almost mocking himself. “Due to unforeseen circumstances, the range of stimuli tested was too narrow for accurate data.” Sherlock’s arms tighten around John’s chest, an incongruously protective gesture. “There was no opportunity for observation of subject’s response to temperature variation, for example. It’s apparent that future experimentation will be required.”

“Oh, God.” John presses his back against Sherlock’s chest. If he had any sense whatsoever, John’s sure that would make him nervous. It certainly shouldn’t be sending a half-shiver of anticipation through his tired limbs, or sound like so much _fun_.

Still. His last conscious thought before sleep claims him is that it really, really does.


End file.
